


Sherlock Ferret & The Amnesiac Admiral

by sanguinity



Series: sang's moreholmes [12]
Category: Sherlock Ferret - Hugh Ashton, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Amnesia, Bittersweet Ending, Friendship, Gen, Happy Ending, Holometabolism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-08
Updated: 2017-10-31
Packaged: 2019-01-10 19:24:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12306042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanguinity/pseuds/sanguinity
Summary: Wiggins is missing. Watson Mouse is on the case.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [starfishstar](https://archiveofourown.org/users/starfishstar/gifts).



> A post-Holmestice treat for Starfishstar. "The Amnesiac Admiral" is complete and will be posted over the next few days, as my betas and I have a chance to edit it.
> 
> Everything one needs to know about Hugh Ashton's characters and setting is included in the story. If I applied a disturbing amount of science to Mr. Ashton's premise, well... Fiction is never so wild that science isn't wilder.
> 
> My thanks to grrlpup for beta and to dancesontrains for Britpick; my apologies to Doyle for that one sentence I stole from him. This story is not authorized either by the ACD estate or Mr. Ashton and is offered only for entertainment purposes, and nor for profit.
> 
>  **Warning** for frank discussion of butterfly pupation.

It was a beautiful evening in early October, the hour when a mouse gives his first yawn and glances toward the clock. My friend Sherlock Ferret and I were reading quietly in our sitting room when I looked up from my copy of the _Rodent Reporter_ and did just exactly that.

"I daresay you're right, Watson," Sherlock said from his armchair across the hearth, where he was reading one of his Big Books. "We've had a long day finding things out, and it's past time for bed."

Sometimes Sherlock is away overnight and I have to go to bed on my own, but I like it much better when we go to bed together. I have my own bed, of course, but it is only mouse-sized and much too small for a ferret, so we always use his. We brush our teeth and put on our pyjamas; then Sherlock curls up in a circle on his bed. Once he is comfortable, I climb up and tuck myself into the warmest spot in the middle. It is a very nice way to spend a crisp October night. Sherlock thinks so, too.

Sleeping with Sherlock is pleasant and warm, but that is not the only reason I feel better when we sleep together. When Sherlock has been very busy all day, he sleeps very, very deeply, and almost nothing can wake him. He calls it 'dead sleep,' which doesn't mean that he is dying (thank goodness!), but only that I can thump his chest or shake his arm or roll him right over and he just flops like wet noodles without waking up in the slightest. Sometimes I can't even hear him breathe when he sleeps so deeply like that. It worried me when I first knew him, but now I know that if I let him be, he'll eventually wake up on his own. However, because I am his friend, I don't like leaving him alone when he sleeps so deeply. I am a very light sleeper, so if anything should happen that Sherlock would want to know about, I know I would wake up right away and work very hard to make sure he woke up too. Sherlock says that I am a very stubborn and determined mouse, and that is one of the many things that is useful about me. I think that is very kind of him to say.

"Wiggins wasn't with the other cappertillers today," I said by way of conversation, once Sherlock and I were tucked up snug and cosy together. Earlier, Sherlock had been too busy giving his Bakery Irregulars their marching orders for me to ask about Wiggins' absence, and I had forgotten to ask afterward.

"Caterpillars," Sherlock corrected me. There are some words that I almost never remember to say correctly. I don't know why. "And no, he wasn't."

"Nor the last time, either," I pointed out. 

"You've noticed, I think, that Wiggins was the biggest and oldest of all the Irregulars?"

"Oh! He's growing up and becoming a butterfly!" I figured this out because Sherlock said 'was.' Sherlock is very clever, but he is not the only one who can deduce things. 

"Yes, he's pupating," Sherlock said. _Pupating_ is a big word that means 'becoming a butterfly.' Sherlock reads lots of big books and so he knows lots of big words, like _nefarious_ and _scurrilous_ and also _pupating._ I am a Doctor of Mousology, so I usually read only about mice, but I have looked at his Big Book of Butterflies, which has the prettiest pictures of all his big books, so I know the word _pupating,_ too.

"When will he finish pupating?" I asked. "And will he come around after so we can see?" I was eager to see Wiggins' new wings. One must never touch a butterfly's wings, much like one mustn’t touch a caterpillar's fur (although for different reasons), but I am an adult mouse and know how to look at a pretty thing without touching it.

Sherlock became very quiet. Very quiet, and maybe also very sad. "I do not think Wiggins will remember us."

"Not remember us?"

"Mouse pups are very much like adult mice," Sherlock said, but I stopped him there. It is rude to interrupt someone, but sometimes one must. Sherlock knows many things and is almost always right, but I am a Doctor of Mousology, and mouse pups are my field.

"Mouse pups are not like adult mice," I corrected him. "Mouse pups are deaf, blind, bald, and entirely helpless."

Sherlock smiled. "You are perfectly correct, Watson. And yet even though mouse pups are _somewhat_ different from mouse adults, they are also fairly similar. For example, every part of an adult mouse already exists in the pup."

"Except the fur," I said, because Sherlock always says that the details are paramount. _Paramount_ means more important than anything else.

"Except the fur, thank you. But my point is that mouse pups, when growing up, only have to make all their existing parts bigger and better and stronger. They don't need any new parts at all. Except the fur," he added before I could. "Whereas with caterpillars it is very different. Almost none of the adult parts exist in the larva."

 _Larva_ is a big word for _caterpillar,_ which is strange, because _larva_ is much easier to say than _caterpillar._ _Larva_ is from a language called Latin, so if there is more than one caterpillar, they are called _larvae._ Latin is silly like that.

"Wiggins will have to grow an entirely new body while he is pupating," Sherlock continued. "In the process, he will lose nearly every body part he already had."

I considered this. "Including the parts that remember us?"

"Yes," my friend said gravely. "Including the parts that remember us."

"But…! But he led so many missions for you! Had so many adventures! Will he remember nothing at all?"

Sherlock considered it. "Perhaps scents," he finally allowed. "Some people say that butterflies sometimes remember scents."

"Oh," I said, feeling better. "He'll remember _you,_ then." 

Sherlock has a strong, ferrety sort of scent. It is rude to say that someone smells, and I never would, but I liked Sherlock's scent very much. Sherlock's scent meant _home_ and _warm_ and _safe._ If someone was being mean or cruel, Sherlock's scent would become much stronger, which meant that Sherlock was going to make the person stop. "Wiggins will remember you from your scent, and then you can tell him all about his adventures he's forgotten."

"Perhaps," Sherlock said, but I could tell he didn't really think so.

"Will you recognise Wiggins when you see him?"

"I know what kind of butterfly he'll be, but almost every part of Wiggins will be new. So no, I don't think I'll be able to recognise him from all the other Red Admiral butterflies."

I thought about that, how Wiggins could be right there in front of us, and Sherlock wouldn't know. It seemed very sad. "Is that why you always look at butterflies so closely with your lens?" It was actually a magnifying glass, but Sherlock liked to call it a lens. "To see if a butterfly is one of your Irregulars?"

"Shh," Sherlock said, stretching out his chin to settle it on his paws. "It's long past time we went to sleep." Usually Sherlock doesn't care how long we talk, so that's how I knew he really meant that he didn't want to talk about Wiggins anymore. 

I still wanted to talk about Wiggins, but when Sherlock doesn't want to talk about something, trying to make him talk about it upsets him more. So I just wished him good night, instead.

"Good night, my dear mouse," Sherlock said, and curling around me a little more tightly, he shut his eyes to go to sleep.

But I didn't go to sleep. I sat awake, tucked up in the curl of Sherlock's warm side, and thought about Wiggins. How Wiggins had once asked me not to pet his fur because he didn't want to inadvertently poison me, and how much he liked cinnamon cake crumbs, and how he was the best and bravest and smartest of all the Irregulars.

"Don't worry, Sherlock," I said, when I was sure Sherlock was asleep, his nose twitching with ferrety dreams. "We'll find Wiggins again, you'll see."

Sherlock may be the master detective, but I am a very stubborn mouse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For friends of our dear Wiggins, who would like to understand more about butterfly pupation:
> 
>   * Scientific American: [How Does a Caterpillar Turn into a Butterfly?](https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/caterpillar-butterfly-metamorphosis-explainer/)
>   * PLOS One: [Retention of Memory through Metamorphosis: Can a Moth Remember What It Learned As a Caterpillar?](http://journals.plos.org/plosone/article?id=10.1371/journal.pone.0001736)
> 

> 
> (We can presume that Sherlock doesn't know about that last article. His scent might become very strong if he did.)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies for the long delay in posting chapter two; life rather caught up with me.

The very first thing the next day, even before our breakfast, I looked up Red Admirals in Sherlock's Big Book of Butterflies. It seemed Wiggins would be quite handsome after he finished pupating, with velvety black wings inscribed with a broken circle of red, his wing-tips dotted in brilliant white. I studied the picture until I was certain I would recognise that kind of butterfly if I saw it again.

The Big Book also said that Red Admirals pupate for two to three weeks. I checked the calendar, and saw it had been nearly that long since Wiggins had stopped coming around with the rest of the Irregulars. So Wiggins might already be a butterfly, or would become one very soon.

Further, the Big Book said that the Red Admiral imago— _imago_ is a big word for _adult butterfly_ —likes to eat many kinds of flower nectar, but that they also eat blackberries and even rotting plums that have fallen from trees. That gave me an idea for a plan for finding Wiggins again. My blood nearly simmered with excitement.

"Watson, come to breakfast," Sherlock called. "Mrs Hudson dropped some lovely cinnamon cake this morning."

I had learned everything I needed and I quite enjoy cinnamon cake, so I put away Sherlock's Big Book of Butterflies and came to breakfast.

"Are you quite all right?" Sherlock asked. "You aren't usually late to breakfast."

"I'm very well, thank you," I said politely, and served myself some cake. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, very. Did you discover what Wiggins will look like, or would you like me to help?" 

Sherlock is very clever, so of course he knew exactly what I had been looking at. "I found it, thank you. He'll be very handsome, don't you think?" I broke off a generous chunk of cinnamon cake and wrapped it neatly in my handkerchief. I would need it for my plan.

"Yes, he will be," Sherlock said. He frowned at me as I neatly tied off the ends of my handkerchief. "Whatever are you doing?"

"Saving some cinnamon cake for Wiggins. I thought he might like it."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Watson, and I'm sure the old Wiggins would have liked it." Sherlock sounded nearly as sad as he had been the night before. "The new Wiggins, however, probably won't enjoy cinnamon cake. Butterflies don't eat solid food, they only drink nectar."

 _And fruit juices,_ I thought, _and also flower sap,_ but it was true that the Big Book of Butterflies had said nothing about cake crumbs. And cake crumbs weren't very much like nectar, juice, or sap. 

"Oh," I said, frowning at my neatly-wrapped bit of cake. I would have to rethink my plan. 

"Never mind, Watson," Sherlock said. "We can take it on a picnic. You did a very nice job wrapping it up. And perhaps we will see butterflies while we're picnicking. You may even borrow my lens, if you like."

And so immediately after we finished our breakfast, we packed for a picnic. 

Even though it was October, it was still warm enough for picnicking if one sat in the sun, which we made sure to do. We saw many kinds of butterflies, and Sherlock named each of them out for me. They mostly had very silly names, I thought. _Clouded Yellow,_ which wasn't cloudy at all, but bright and sunny; _Common Blue,_ which was delicate and elegant and not at all common; _Large_ and _Small Tortoiseshells,_ which looked nothing like at all like tortoises, or even like turtles. But then Sherlock pointed out a stunning butterfly called a _Camberwell Beauty_ that suited its name very well. Sherlock said Camberwell Beauties are rare in Britain, and that we were both lucky to see it. He let me use his lens to admire it.

Butterflies interest Sherlock far more than they interest me, so after a while I went for a stroll around our picnic grounds. I happened across some brambles, which was exciting, even though it was much too late in the year for blackberries. The last remaining fruit was overripe, half-deflated, and not at all tasty-looking, but the Big Book of Butterflies had said that Wiggins might like them anyway, so I tied up a few in my handkerchief, even though they weren't good for mice to eat. The berries left a nasty purple stain on my hands and linen, but I thought the mess worth it to find Wiggins. 

I was just finishing up with the blackberries when Sherlock called me over to look at a Peacock butterfly. I packed my blackberries away and went to see. It seems that a Peacock butterfly is mostly red, without any green or blue at all. Sherlock would be cranky to hear me say it, but butterflies _do_ have very silly names.

By the time we finished our picnic and headed for home, Sherlock seemed much happier than he had at breakfast. We hadn't seen any Red Admiral butterflies, but he didn't seem to mind. I didn't mind, either, because I still had my plan.

On the way home we passed a plum tree, which was extremely exciting, especially when I saw how much fruit it had dropped. A plum is almost too large for a mouse to move alone, but when Sherlock saw how determined I was, even braving the wasps that crawled about the fallen fruit, he graciously improvised a net and carried four of the plums home for me. _Four!_ I was nearly beside myself with joy. Surely Wiggins couldn't resist _four_ ripe-until-bursting plums!

"I can't imagine why you are suddenly so excited about plums," Sherlock said, as we walked home. "It's been a long time since I've heard you squeak like that."

I blushed, because I am a Doctor of Mousology and normally too dignified for squeaking.

But Sherlock only smiled. "I'm sure one will be very nice with our tea," he said. "And we'll find something to do with the others. Perhaps Mrs Hudson would like some for her baking."

I tried to hide my disappointment. "Oh. Yes." Surely two plums would be nearly as good as four? I could only hope it would be. "Yes, I'm sure one will be very nice with our tea."

Sherlock looked sharply at me. He studied my face and then my hands, which were still stained with blackberry juice. I put my hands behind my back and tried to look innocent. Unfortunately, looking innocent is difficult to do when Sherlock is looking sharply at one.

"Hmm," Sherlock said, but he said nothing more.

 

Sherlock was right, as he almost always is: a plum _was_ very nice with our tea. 

"Oh, that was lovely," Sherlock said, patting plum juice from his whiskers with a napkin. "Perhaps we needn't take the rest to Mrs Hudson quite yet." 

I sighed in relief, that I might still use the remaining three plums for my plan.

However, my plan also required some items from Mrs Hudson's kitchen, and it would be polite to leave her a gift in exchange. As a rule, we didn't like to annoy Mrs Hudson: it was warm in our rooms under the bakery, and she was a good landlady who never once brought in a cat or a terrier to terrorise us. Normally we took only things that fell on the floor near our door—she couldn't sell anything that had been on the floor, after all—but tonight I planned to break our longstanding rule and deliberately thieve from her larder, which might annoy her very much. I would leave something especially nice for her when I did, so she would know I didn't mean any disrespect.

So after tea I went to my room and went through all my things, deciding what among them Mrs Hudson might like best. I finally picked my gold watch, which I had from my father via one of my older brothers. Mice have many children, so it was unusual that I had anything of my father's at all; most mice are not so lucky. But it felt worth it to give up my father's watch against the possibility of meeting Wiggins again. Especially when I remembered how sad Sherlock had been.

I wrapped the watch carefully so that it wouldn't clink if I bumped it against something in Mrs Hudson's kitchen during the night. Then I went back out to the sitting room, and spent the rest of the evening sitting by the fire with Sherlock, reading a journal of mousology while he perused one of his many Big Books.

That night we went to bed together as usual, me tucking myself into the very warmest place beside him. I listened attentively while Sherlock talked about the many butterflies we had seen that day, and also all the butterflies they had reminded him of. Despite my best intentions, I usually fall asleep when Sherlock talks about butterflies for that long, but that night, it was easy to stay awake. I planned to burgle Mrs Hudson's kitchen as soon as Sherlock was asleep, and I was far too excited and nervous to be sleepy.

We had seen many, many butterflies on our picnic, but even Sherlock reaches a point when he is too tired to talk about butterflies anymore. When I was certain he was asleep, I thumped and shoved him to be sure he was _dead_ asleep. He rolled loosely, unaware of my efforts to wake him. I dislike leaving him alone when he sleeps like that, but that night I had an important mission, and so I crept out of bed anyway. 

I fetched my burgling things from my room, and with one last look to make sure Sherlock was still dead asleep, I crept upstairs to Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you would like to read about the kind of butterfly Wiggins will become, [this site has nearly as much information on _Vanessa atalanta_](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=atalanta) as does Sherlock's Big Book of Butterflies. (And unlike Sherlock's Big Book, it has moving pictures, too!)
> 
> The butterflies Sherlock and Watson saw on their picnic are [flying this week](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/flighttimes_this_week.php) in the UK. For readers coming to this story during other weeks: [Clouded Yellow](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=croceus), [Common Blue](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=icarus), [Large Tortoiseshell](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=polychloros), [Small Tortoiseshell](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=urticae), [Camberwell Beauty](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=antiopa), and [Peacock](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/species.php?species=io).
> 
> And a very grateful tip-of-the-hat to UK Butterflies, whose [rich and varied](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/flighttimes_by_date.php) [resources](http://www.ukbutterflies.co.uk/nectar_sources.php) made researching this story far easier than I imagined it would be.


	3. Chapter 3

Foraging in Mrs Hudson's kitchen, it quickly became clear why so many mice nibble holes in the bottom of bags and boxes: human-sized containers are all _much_ too large to open easily in the normal way. However, I did not want to annoy Mrs Hudson any more than necessary, and that meant that getting what I needed from her larder went much more slowly than I had planned.

I was only halfway through my list when a shadow loomed above me in the dark. I screamed, and nearly fell from the countertop. 

A strong paw shot out and dragged me back from the edge.

"Watson!" Sherlock snapped, because of course he was the shadow who had startled me. He smelled very strongly. "What are you doing up here?" He sniffed at the jar I had been attempting to unstopper, then sneezed. "Cinnamon? Why are you risking your life and our home for cinnamon?"

"Hshht!" I scolded him, for I thought I heard something in the rooms above the bakery.

But Sherlock ignored me and went stalking off down the counter-top. "You've spilled the sugar. Mrs Hudson isn't going to like that." With a sweep of his tail, he sent the spilled sugar scattering to the floor, where it was less noticeable. "Cinnamon and sugar… Is this about Wiggins?" he demanded.

I could see all his teeth, which were sharp and white. I wasn't scared of his teeth, because I knew Sherlock would never hurt me, but I could understand why other people sometimes were.

"Is this your watch? Your _father's_ watch?" Snatching my watch up from where I had left it for Mrs Hudson, he put it in his pocket.

"Put that back!" I told him, angry that he was being so high-handed. "That's for Mrs Hudson!"

"We'll find her something else," Sherlock said. "I'm not standing by and letting you lose the only thing you have from your father. This _is_ about Wiggins, isn't it?"

We heard a door close upstairs, and quick as a flash, Sherlock shouldered the cinnamon jar back into its place, then shoved me off the counter. I squawked when I hit the floor, but it was mostly outrage about the indignity of my landing; it is difficult for someone as small as me to become hurt falling so short a distance as that. Sherlock jumped down to the floor after me, then dragged me toward our door. When he reached it, he reversed and scooched himself in tail-first, pulling me in after him. He had just tugged me into the deep shadows beyond our door when light spilled across the kitchen.

Sherlock's scent was very strong in that tiny space, and I could feel him trembling beneath his fur. I pressed closer against his side, and he took my hand. I was sorry that he was upset, of course, but I rather liked holding his hand.

Mrs Hudson didn't do or say anything at first, but only stood in the kitchen door. We waited, tense, as she walked a few steps into the kitchen and circled the marble counter. She paused near our door, and we both held our breaths. Then she turned and took the light away again. 

"I woke up and you weren't _there,"_ Sherlock hissed, while I was still waiting to hear if Mrs Hudson had gone for good. "You weren't _anywhere._ And then I find you up _here…_ "

"I'm sorry," I told him, because I was. "I didn't mean to worry you. But I _have_ gone burgling before, you know."

"When I've planned it! Do you realise how much could go wrong? How much thought I put into it to make sure it doesn't?"

I was surprised, because he always seemed so confident and casual when he sent me burgling for one of his investigations. But maybe his confidence had been to give _me_ courage. "I'm sorry," I said again.

"You should have said something," he muttered, his eyes fixed on the patch of kitchen floor beyond our door. "I would have helped. If seeing Wiggins again matters enough to you to give up your _father's watch_ for it…"

"It was for you," I said, and he looked down at me in surprise. "It wasn't for me. It was so _you_ could see Wiggins again. You seemed so sad, last night."

It was his turn to blink at me. "Well," he said, somewhat gruff, "you shan't give up your father's watch for it. No, don't argue with me. What's mine is yours, you know that, or you ought to, and likewise what's yours is mine. And as half-owner of your father's watch, I insist that we leave something else for Mrs Hudson."

For a little while, I couldn't speak at all, I was so surprised and moved. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He nodded once, then turned his attention back to the kitchen door. "Now, what do you still need?" 

"Cinnamon. I was going to make cinnamon syrup for Wiggins. But I couldn't get the stopper out of the jar."

"Between us, we should be able to manage that," he said. I could see him calculating the best way to do it.

"And I need something that smells like you," I braved. I hadn't been at all sure what I would do about that—perhaps filch some bedding? But this way was better.

He gave me a cheeky, pleased sort of smile. "And you may have the shirt off my back, if you want it. But let's get you your cinnamon first."

 

Once we had all the ingredients, the plan was simple enough. Sherlock, who knew Wiggins somewhat better than I did—and butterflies _much_ better—helped me refine the details, but our plan remained basically as I originally conceived it. We went to the area where Wiggins had lived as a caterpillar, and built a feeding station to appeal specifically to Red Admiral butterflies. We put some cinnamon syrup nearby, which we hoped might appeal to Wiggins in particular. And a little higher on the hill, above both, and where its scent might carry in the breeze, we hung Sherlock's shirt. I hoped that Wiggins might recognise it via whatever dim shadows of memory he might still possess. Sherlock blushed at my wanting to hang his shirt for any passerby to see—Sherlock is a very modest sort of ferret—but he let me do it anyway. 

And then we watched.

And we waited.

"Patience, Watson," Sherlock soothed on the fourth day, peering through his lens at a drab little butterfly that looked like a dead leaf. "The weather is cool, and pupation is probably progressing slower than usual. Wiggins might not have eclosed yet."

 _Eclosed_ is a big word that means _hatched,_ except that _hatched_ is supposed to be only for eggs. If one is talking of a pupa or chrysalis, then one is supposed to say _eclosed._

I blush to admit it, but I was anxious enough with waiting that I wanted very much to say _hatched_ to Sherlock when I really meant _eclosed._ We had waited four days, and yet there was no sign that my plan had accomplished anything but a lot of fuss and bother. We had seen many butterflies, of course, and even a few Red Admiral butterflies, but none of them had shown more than a passing interest in the cinnamon syrup. 

At least I could say with confidence that Mrs Hudson hadn't been too put out by our midnight adventures in her kitchen. She seemed to like the gift of Sherlock's emerald-green cut-glass tie-pin, and there had been no unfriendly appearances of terriers or cats at our door. And only this morning Mrs Hudson had accidentally dropped an apricot scone in front of our door, so she had not been put off her baking. Even if my plan was an abysmal failure in every other respect, it had at least not put us out of hearth, home, or delicious baked goods.

Sherlock, much to my annoyance, was perfectly content with the results of my plan. He had spent four peaceful days watching butterflies, after all. "We should build something like this closer to the bakery. I shall have to think what kinds of forage might be best."

"Perhaps the cinnamon syrup is too bitter," I fretted. "Perhaps it is so strong that it is intolerable to a butterfly."

"Perhaps it is," Sherlock said, and something in his voice made me look up. "And yet this one is drawn to it, nonetheless."

There was a Red Admiral butterfly perched on the mouth of the syrup bottle. It unfurled its proboscis to dip down into the liquid. It drew abruptly back, then tasted it again. And again.

"Is that…?"

"I don't know, Watson. But look at his wings. They're pristine. Those wings haven't been in the world for more than a few hours. And he flew right past the plums, straight to the cinnamon syrup."

"The syrup _is_ too bitter," I said, because the butterfly didn't seem to be relishing it.

"And yet he's still drawn to it. Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed, because the butterfly had taken flight.

We watched, rapt, as the butterfly circled, touched down on one of the plums, drank briefly, then took off again. 

This time, it bobbed and fluttered near me. 

"Are you our friend Wiggins?" I asked. I put out a hand, even though it was nearly as large as I was. It touched down momentarily, its weight heavy on my arm, then lifted off again.

It next came to rest on Sherlock's coat. Sherlock murmured gently to it, even as he lifted his glass to examine it more closely.

"He isn't talking," I said.

"I never met one who did. I don't know that they remember enough of their former lives for that."

The butterfly who might have been Wiggins stayed for nearly two hours, sometimes feeding at the fallen plums, sometimes attempting to drink the cinnamon syrup—watching him, I was ever more convinced I _had_ brewed it too bitter—and occasionally perching on Sherlock. Sherlock talked to him gently, and sometimes hand-fed him a little juice from the plums. It was never clear that the butterfly knew us, beyond the fact that none of the other Red Admirals had behaved so. The butterfly never responded to anything that Sherlock said, that I could see.

When the butterfly finally fluttered off, Sherlock watched him go. Sherlock seemed shiningly happy.

"Was that really Wiggins, do you think?" I asked.

He was silent for a long while. "There was something of him about the antennae, I thought."

Coming from Sherlock, that seemed a very sure thing. He was, after all, almost always right. "Do you think he'll come back?"

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. It's hard to know with butterflies. They lead very busy lives."

I nodded, although butterflies didn't seem so busy to me.

"Thank you for that," Sherlock said. I turned to look at him. "It's a gift to see him even the once. I was so convinced it wasn't possible to see any of my Irregulars again that I hadn't thought to even try."

"Well, I _am_ a very stubborn mouse. You've sometimes said so."

"And a very useful kind of stubborness it is. Shall we go back and our have tea?"

"Yes, let's," I said. We had been taking our teas as picnics, but I should like to have our tea at home again, hot and fresh and without the lingering aura of a vacuum flask.

Sherlock offered me his arm, and we walked home together through the October sunshine, to the Bakery, our tea, and a very nice apricot scone.


End file.
